


Time After Time

by Argyle



Series: Compositions (Vlad and Johnny Get Happy AU) [2]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, Domestic, Fluff with Fangs, Happy Ending, London Blitz, M/M, Monsters in love, Post-Canon Fix-It, Self-Indulgent Twattle, Slice of Life, Time Skips, Vampire Sex, Vampires, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29112699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: When Dracula took Jonathan as his bride, he didn’t expect him to be husband material. When Jonathan took Dracula’s ring, he didn’t agree to put up with his shit.-or-Five scenes from the eternal – infernal – marriage of Count Dracula and Jonathan Harker.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: Compositions (Vlad and Johnny Get Happy AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103159
Comments: 20
Kudos: 75





	1. 1897

Somewhere in between life and death – and life again, if the state Jonathan presently finds himself in can rightly be described as such—this consciousness and strength and _hunger_ like he's never known before, nor thought possible – he inadvertently sheds the notion that Dracula is solely a creature to be reviled; someone he's, above all else, vowed to destroy.

And yes, Jonathan is a prize fool for granting himself this liberty. He should rightly well and fully mire in his own firsthand experience of Dracula's cruelty rather than, like a puff of smoke which molds itself about and beyond some immovable object, come instead to admire Dracula's curiosity, tenacity, and intelligence.

He ought to balk at Dracula's presumptuous familiarity and the strange tenderness he fixes on him now, eyes wide and beseeching: "Tell me, my dear, what you know of astronomy."

Jonathan hesitates. It's difficult to focus on anything but the weight of Dracula's hand at the small of his back. Then: "Er, next to nothing, I'm afraid, my lord."

"Johnny, Johnny. I've told you," Dracula chides fondly. "You must call me _Vlad_."

"Vlad," Jonathan turns the name on his tongue, finding it sweeter than he supposed it would be. More welcome than he hoped.

Then Dracula's – _Vlad's_ – mouth curves into a grin, knife-sharp and quite as deadly. They're stood side by side on the castle battlement, the very spot where—where Jonathan was—

Where he found himself—

Reborn. Jonathan shivers as Vlad's hand skirts up the knobs of his spine to settle between his shoulder blades. "Yes, Johnny," he purrs, "just like that." Then, consideringly: "D'you know, I once drained a man who speculated that the night sky is far more ancient than we realize? Ever since, I've never quite got the idea out of my head that the very light of the stars themselves might be thousands, perhaps even _millions_ of years old. Can you imagine, Johnny? Every celestial body we see before us now could be long since extinguished, given up eons ago to the obdurate march of time. Why, we might be the last ones left in all of creation."

Jonathan stares at him. And then he feels something shift within himself. For the first time, he senses in Vlad an immeasurable loneliness; a well of yearning so deep and wide as to swallow entire all that might break its surface.

"Human life is so fleeting. But we can capture it. Harness it. Refine it to our own purpose," says Vlad. "We can choose to be more, Johnny. 'Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es.'"

The words translate effortlessly within Jonathan's brain, and he thinks, not for the first time, that yes, the Count has indeed made him his friend.

After a long moment, Jonathan huffs out a breath, only for Vlad to catch it, swallow it down like wine. Like blood. Then Vlad surges forward, his tongue setting against Jonathan's lips, and Jonathan opens to him—opens, opens, at last.


	2. 1940

Dracula has, over the centuries, occasionally found himself at the center of calamity.

He also has a rather uncanny knack for survival.

As an infant, he was struck by fever while yet at his nurse's breast; despite all odds, he recovered.

As a boy, he was thrown from his horse into a narrow ravine: the beast was far too large for him, he had to admit. He could barely even mount the thing. Yet he was encouraged to find himself only shaken but unharmed.

As a warlord, he was always recovering from some ailment or other which would surely drop a lesser man, and it was indeed the business end of an Ottoman spear that ended his mortal existence—yet so too delivered him into undeath.

After that, it's only been a matter of time and patience and will—

And yes, blood. Blood in such enormous quantity and variety that neither avalanche nor shipwreck, age nor hunger, fire nor crucifix nor the sun's scarlet embrace, have successfully vanquished Dracula from this earth.

This though— _this_ right now, pinned as he is beneath a heap of rubble, glass and brick and ash above and about him, the remnants of the building he and Johnny took shelter in when the air raid sirens began to blare—

This, and the abrupt cessation of Johnny's ever-presence within his mind, the snuffing out of the well-loved thrum of him in Dracula's veins—

This catches him off-guard.

"Johnny!" he bellows, coughing, struggling to heave himself free. Again: _Johnny! Johnny!_

Nothing. No answer. Naught but the familiar scent of Johnny's blood which Dracula follows to a debris pile some twenty yards to his left – and they'd been standing together, hadn't they, before the incendiary hit? – which he presently, desperately begins to tear apart, even the largest boulders light as thistledown in his hands—

And Johnny, by God, Johnny lighter still.

Oblivious to the commotion, the claxons and cries, Dracula carries him into the cool autumn night, sets him down and touches his face, searching, needing to _know_ if he's—if he'll—

"Vlad," says Johnny, though it's more of a croak. He must have sustained some injury to his neck, Dracula thinks. His ribs or lungs. His back. But no matter: Dracula will take him home and feed him every bottle in their stores, if he must; he'll set him to his own throat for as long as it takes to make him whole again.

Dracula rubs his thumb over a gash on his husband's cheek. "Yes, Johnny," he says. "I have you."

Johnny swallows shakily. "The others...trapped."

"What d'you expect—"

"Help them," Johnny says, and at last he opens those gorgeous, red-rimmed eyes of his—only to set them on Dracula in what's undoubtedly the sternest look he can manage. The sight makes Dracula suck in a sudden, unnecessary breath, as does this, striking his brain like a bolt of lightning: _Vlad. Please. They don't deserve to die like this._

For a moment more, Dracula hesitates.

And then he goes.

The stench of blood is thicker now, so fresh and so sweet; it's quite enough to roil his guts. But with utmost concentration, he schools his appetite into submission, steels his nerves, and begins to extract a dozen or more humans from the still-smoldering ruins.

They're wounded – some of them badly so – but they're alive.

After, he shoos away the medic who's bent over Johnny's prostrate body, rumbling, "You owe me one, Johnny," and then pulls him to his chest. Wanting to hold him. Needing to keep him close.

"I know, Vlad," Johnny sighs. "I know."


	3. 1986

For all its rote familiarity, the cab ride from Victoria Station to Carfax is undoubtedly the strangest of Jonathan's life. It has, after all, been seven years since he last made this trip, and the thought of returning to the place he'd so long called home has him fidgeting in his seat.

He didn't tell Vlad he was coming.

He _should_ have done so, just as when the weeks of his absence became months became years, he should have written, called—Well. Given Vlad even the slightest confirmation of his wellbeing... if not his whereabouts.

He should right now set a tentative, probing tug upon their shared mental tether: the accutely sensitive spot nested deep within his brain which has thickened into psychic scar tissue, disused and deeply missed.

Their parting hadn't been pleasant. The last time Jonathan saw Vlad, his face was set in a mask of unadulterated rage such as Jonathan had not witnessed since Vlad discovered him trespassing in his castle's catacombs.

It frightened Jonathan, that after all they'd been through together, Vlad was still capable of directing such anger towards him. But so too he knew he was in the right: Vlad's ravenous urges were finally caught on camera in a slipup that very nearly set the long arm of Scotland Yard down upon them, and in the face of Vlad's childish refusal to rein himself in – to _adapt_ to these changing times – Jonathan packed a bag and turned his back on Carfax and his husband both.

He left.

He left—and before long, found himself wanting, his own company the same self of old acquaintance, despite any proximity a wonder of the world.

It was only stubbornness that kept him away for so long. Now, stood before Carfax's great door on this clear, cold night, hat in hand and the taillights of his cab already fading into nothingness, he's struck by the memory of his arrival at Castle Dracula, so long ago.

But this time, there shall be no tricks. No games. Jonathan decides it will be better to knock rather than simply let himself in, and Vlad opens the door himself, as himself—

And just...oh. 

Vlad's face softens into an expression of genuine surprise, his eyebrows vaulting upward and his lips curving into a smile, his dark eyes gleaming brightly, like he's pleased, as well and truly happy to see Jonathan as Jonathan is to see him. Then, in a moment, he tilts his head, curious and guarded once more. "Hello, Johnny. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I—" Jonathan stammers, "I thought I might—That is, if you'd be willing—"

Vlad huffs out a laugh. "Yes. I thought as much," he says. Then, his timbre dropping: "Come, my dear boy, before you catch your death out there: in you get."

Jonathan does.

Against Jonathan's protestations, Vlad collects his bags and deposits them – and Jonathan, after admitting that he desired nothing more than a hot shower after so many hours of traveling – in Jonathan's old rooms.

They're exactly as he left them. In fact, if it wasn't for his favorite chair's new position beside the window and the half-emptied glass of blood beside it, he'd have thought Vlad had eschewed the space altogether.

And Jonathan longs for Vlad's touch. He's half a mind to invite Vlad to join him in the bath, and something in him is decidedly disappointed when Vlad doesn't take the liberty himself. But then again, no: it gives Jonathan the time he needs to compose himself. To realign his thoughts in a way he hasn't been able to until now, when the reality of his and Vlad's union surrounds him so completely.

It's all Jonathan can do to not simply bring himself off in the shower.

Hell, Vlad hasn't even _touched_ him—and he isn't sure Vlad will want to, regardless.

But Jonathan is determined to make amends. To do better. To drag Vlad screaming, if he must, from his path of willful self-destruction, for the alternative – capture, interrogation, death – is unacceptable.

He means to tell Vlad this. He means to make the case for newfound discretion understood.

And yet when, later, he finds Vlad holed up in his study sat before a personal computer which casts his pale features in eerie green light, it's Vlad who explains: "You were right, you know, Johnny. You were correct in calling me out. And to have you leave over some damned ne're-do-well MP, no less." He shakes his head and pushes his chair backward. "I've been a bloody fool. If we're to live out this century, let alone the next one, some adjustments are in order." Vlad's mouth curves into a taut smile. "Does it shock you to hear me say it?"

Jonathan swallows. Then: "It makes me glad."

"And?"

"And I would...assist you—if you'd allow it."

Vlad tilts his head. "Well. You were always a dab hand at editorial work," he says. And, when Jonathan frowns, continues, "I've lately found myself in possession of a great deal of free time, and have somehow taken up memoir writing to fill in the gaps. Three thousand pages in and not an end in sight, Johnny. Perhaps you'll deem fit to read through the godforsaken thing."

Jonathan stares at him, feeling his anger – his sadness and dread – gradually melt away. "Yes, I—I'd like that very much." And before he can think better of it, he falls into Vlad's arms and kisses him soundly. Vlad opens to him beautifully, sucking his tongue into his mouth—but he doesn't, to Jonathan's surprise, graze him with his fangs.

"Missed me?" Vlad says, after a time. "By God, Johnny, where _have_ you been?"

"Don't you know?" says Jonathan.

"The last thing I remember you telling me was, and I quote, to 'stay the hell out' of your mind. Have you had a change of heart?"

Jonathan kisses him again, luxuriating in their closeness, but leaves it at this: "Maybe." Then: _Yes, Vlad. Yes._


	4. 2010

When Dracula first fed on Johnny, oh, so long ago now, he was well and truly charmed by the absolute sincerity of the man's memories, though perhaps none so more than this: the scent of sweet peas.

For many a year, Johnny's mother trained them on trellises in their small but well-loved garden, and right around the time of Johnny's birthday, their tender, green fragrance filled the air, up and about into Johnny's bedroom window so that he ever breathed deeply of them, even in sleep.

It's this that has Dracula standing before a flower stall outside the tube station he's lately emerged from. Of course, there are no sweet peas to be had, not at this time of year, when the winds rattling through the tall buildings suffice to remind him of nothing if not his own mountainous homeland. So he's dithering over whether it shall be roses again. Lavender, or peonies—

"You're that guy, aren't you?" a voice cuts in, effectively derailing his train of thought.

Ah. A fan. He lets his gaze sweep over the young, bespectacled clerk, then bestows her with the most benign among his arsenal of knife-sharp smiles. "And who might that be?"

"The _vampire_. I read your book when I was, like, twelve."

"Ah. Yes."

The flesh of clerk's throat shifts as she swallows once, twice, and then: "So, I've got to ask: you've been kicking round for centuries, yeah? So... what's the best time to've been alive?"

"The present, my dear, for if I now found myself in any other time, I'd miss the remarkable pleasure of your company."

She blushes beautifully at this, just as Dracula knew she would.

London has changed in a multitude of tiny ways since he and Johnny first made their home here. But it's remained the same in so many of the big ones: the history, the culture, the intrigue—

The _people_. These teeming millions, as sophisticated and intelligent as ever. No: more so. Dracula cannot help but be enchanted. And to see the blood in their cheeks; to provoke warmth in their chest and guts and loins; to smell their twined excitement and fear—

It's enough, isn't it?

It's nearly enough.

It's what he permits himself. What remains.

After a moment, he lifts three tight bunches of daffodils from their pail, pulls a crisp fiver from his billfold, and says, sincerely, "Enjoy your night."

He hasn't even made it to the next crossing before he feels his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. "Hello, darling. How's Quincey feeling?"

"Better. Got her to eat a bit more than she's been lately. Did you happen to pick up her meds?"

"Johnny, Johnny, what sort of irredeemable monster do you take me for?" 

"The kind I know you damned well are, Vlad."

"You _wound_ me."

The puff of Johnny's laughter crackles in Dracula's ear. "All right, then. See you soon?"

By way of answer, Dracula conjures a deliciously sordid image in his mind: he's dropping his trousers; he's looming over Johnny; he's pushing into him with one long thrust. But Johnny has prepared himself, hasn't he? He's practically gagging for his husband's cock. And who is Dracula to deny him?

They move together as though they were born for it.

At this distance – a quarter mile yet, by Dracula's reckoning – Johnny will only receive a fragment of this—Well. It's more promise than fantasy. He'll tingle from his crown to his toes in an all too brief emotional rush. But it's quite enough to coax a low rumble from his chest.

So Dracula leaves it at this: "Soon."


	5. 2015

The irony of two men – villains, murderers, well and true bloodthirsty _monsters_ , them both – standing somberly before a small, freshly turned grave containing the cremated remains of an old, fat, onetime-stray, and dearly beloved housecat, is not lost on Jonathan.

But he hasn't the will to care. After all, he's quite familiar with life's unpleasant contradictions—

By his offhand suggestion which Vlad agreed to with marvelous enthusiasm, they're in Transylvania. Set like a couple of spectres amid the ruins of Castle Dracula, where both he and Vlad had, centuries apart, met demise as well as rebirth. And they haven't been here for decades, not since they visited some years after the second World War only to find the place demolished by Allied bombs, all stone and ash, the smoldering long since gone out.

"She always liked you best, the treacherous beast," Vlad rumbles good-naturedly, after a while.

Jonathan hesitates. Then, "Only because I'm the one who remembered to feed her. And scratch behind her ears just the way she liked. I—I'll miss her—" He swallows wetly, trying to continue, but finding himself quite unable to.

After a long moment, Vlad echoes, "We both shall," before turning to Jonathan, taking him in his arms and kissing him soundly. In the bone-bright darkness of the waxing moon, his expression is sharpened, though so too, Jonathan can make out the humor there; the curiosity which rests just above the deep well of intelligence; the animalistic intensity. He says, "Run with me, Johnny."

And Jonathan can't deny him this even if he wants to: such is Vlad's power of persuasion.

Such is his own grief. And oh, but he does want to run, to all but _fly_ through this air, so cold and clean in his preternatural lungs. Again, he catches Vlad's eye, nodding in luminous moonglow, almost full, streaking the snow-draped forest in silver and blue.

So he runs. Simply runs, sure-footed in unshod feet, before Vlad and beside him. The two of them wild as a couple of dogs in the yet primordial woods of Vlad's ancestral estate, as virile as the wolves they might easily enough become this eve, but don't, for nothing else but their own true selves seems fitting.

Later, Vlad pulls Jonathan into their surprisingly luxe Bucharest hotel suite, and for all their familiarity, the century-long closeness of their bodies and minds, Jonathan still senses a certain awe in Vlad, a wonder that Jonathan is actually _here_ , ever with him, a creature of his own dearly longed-for making.

Jonathan leans in to kiss him, just for that.

_Is it good, Johnny?_

_Yes, Vlad. Yes._

Vlad presses closer, his tongue working against Jonathan's. Jonathan feels more than he sees his belt loosening, then Vlad raises his hand to Jonathan' trousers, palming him through the wool before he undoes his button and zip. He works his fingers into Jonathan's boxers and smoothly takes hold of his cock.

" _God_ ," Jonathan hisses.

"Flatter." Vlad drops to his knees, taking Jonathan' trousers and briefs with him. They pool at Jonathan' feet, and Vlad's breath puffs coolly along his length, his tongue flicking at the tip, and then Jonathan' capacity for higher thought goes out, right out as Vlad takes his cock down in one slow swallow.

With a gasp, Jonathan wrenches his eyes shut. Vlad is too good at this.

It's all Jonathan can do to keep his hands off of Vlad's head, forcing him to _move_ , but then – quite possibly gleaning the thought – Vlad does just that, finally, agonizing and slow, his palms and fingers pressed tight enough to Jonathan's thighs that Jonathan feels welts begin to form beneath them.

He can't keep on like this. Not by a long shot.

_Vlad, please._

Vlad pulls off, a flushed, heady smile stretched across his mouth. "Tell me what you want, Johnny."

It's still a struggle for Jonathan to speak, so he sends the image of it instead: Vlad pressed against him, buried to the root, and Jonathan' legs slung round Vlad's hips as he coaxes Vlad deeper still.

Jonathan is a dab hand at logistics. And Vlad always comes prepared.

"Oh, my very dearest," Vlad laughs, his mind shaking with lust, and beneath that, affection. He rises up, undoes his own belt and trousers, and pulls a packet of lube from the pocket of his black leather moto jacket. He coats two fingers and reaches round Jonathan's body to prepare him. In another moment, a third finger has joined in, and Jonathan lets out a low, guttering moan as Vlad pushes farther, brushing his prostate.

When Vlad pins Jonathan fully against the wall and hoists his legs up, the strain is at first unbearable—there's just too much gravity at work, the weight of his whole body threatening to rend his shoulders out of alignment. But in moments, Vlad's hands are braced on Jonathan's thighs, trapping him against the wall as he nudges his cock against Jonathan's hole.

Vlad is so very strong, but it's still a bit awkward. And yet Jonathan is filled with a lightheaded honey-sweetness, a slow burn, and Vlad's cock is pushing in as Jonathan's thighs tighten around him, his legs crossed at the ankle by the small of Vlad's back.

Vlad's chest is pressed to Jonathan's as he begins to piston with his hips, and it's almost too much—

And then it is. After just a few minutes, Jonathan comes, his cock pulsing between them, his frame shaking with it, and before long, Vlad's coming too, rocking his hips through his orgasm, burying his face in Jonathan's throat and pressing Jonathan against the wall.

A second passes before Vlad releases his hold on Jonathan's hips and Jonathan sags into him, his body shaking in something – but not quite – like a sob. They settle to the floor together.

"All right, Johnny?"

Jonathan nods, grateful as Vlad begins to quickly and efficiently divest him of his well-mussed clothing. He can sense the dawn coming on, less than an hour away now, and feels sluggish for it. Sated. Even the urge to feed has dimmed to a dull throb at the base of his skull.

He thinks, not without reason, that this is perhaps Vlad's doing as well.

When they're tucked side by side in the huge hotel bed, his face pressed into Vlad's chest, he says softly, "I don't really remember what it was like to be human." Then, after a pause, "I don't even recall how I took my tea."

"Milk and two sugars," Vlad says automatically. And, catching Jonathan's surprise, "Come, Johnny. Leave it go at a raised eyebrow, won't you? You know I prepared all your meals when you were a guest at my castle. I still remember you remarking most enthusiastically on my chicken paprikash. Why, you even asked for the recipe—"

"I thought Mina might enjoy learning how to make it." The sudden reformation of this memory makes Jonathan flinch. And why? He knows that Vlad is nothing if not the keeper of his lost mortality. "What else?"

Vlad's eyes are wide. Beguiling. "You brought in your satchel a diary, a polyglot dictionary, and a well-worn copy of _The Time Machine_."

"It was my favorite novel. I'd never read anything like it," Jonathan says, smiling softly.

"You were kind, Johnny. Good in a way that I could hardly comprehend. But I knew I had to have you for my own."

"And my cloak, apparently."

"Mm. That lovely brocade lining. I couldn't resist."

"More. Please."

So Vlad talks until Jonathan is at last dragged, willingly, into his death-like slumber—

And in his dream, he and Vlad grow old together. Their steps never falter; their faces remain smooth—but they are old, both of them.

And of course this is not a dream, or not only.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello @ [argyleheir.tumblr.com](https://argyleheir.tumblr.com/)


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